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  He slid his gaze to his mother, who was studying him as though he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. He gave his attention back to his sister, who, at nineteen, had not yet achieved the maturity to be aware of such shifting undercurrents.

  “I’m not particularly fond of them, no. The ladies appear to be interested only in securing themselves a title without the benefit of a heritage that can ensure they appreciate exactly what it is they are attaining.”

  “I find them fascinating. They are so confident. And so beautiful. Have you ever seen an American lady who wasn’t beautiful?”

  “Truthfully, Anne, I’ve paid them little notice.”

  “That’s because you avoid the social scene. I have heard some of these ladies have as many as two hundred evening gowns. Can you imagine that? I have only four.”

  “Then have another sewn,” Richard suggested as he again picked up his newspaper and strove to give the articles his undivided devotion.

  “Richard, you’re missing the point entirely.”

  “The point, Anne, is that they are spoiled. They live a life of excess. Why would any woman need two hundred gowns? She wouldn’t. That’s ridiculous. They’re ridiculous.”

  “Apparently Farthingham doesn’t think so. If the rumors are true, which I’m fairly certain they must be since Prissy has a reputation for spreading reliable gossip.”

  “I find it inherently troublesome that you’re concerned about the integrity of her reputation for spreading gossip when that very gossip has the potential to damage others’ reputations. Do you not see the irony in your thinking?”

  “I see that you’re in a foul mood this morning. You’ve yet to take delight in a single comment I’ve made. Is your back troubling you?”

  “No,” he answered succinctly. The pain his back sometimes gave him was a reminder of his weakness and failures. It was not something he wished to acknowledge or discuss. “The spreading of gossip troubles me.”

  Anne wrinkled her nose at him and turned to her mother. “What do you think, Mama?”

  “I agree with Richard that gossip is troubling.” Her eyes sparkling, she leaned toward Anne. “However, it can also be a great deal of fun when it isn’t malicious—as is true in this case, I would say. If the rumors surrounding Lord Farthingham are indeed true, however, I suspect he is more interested in what the lady can bring to the family coffers than the number of evening gowns in her wardrobe. And we may be grateful our family is not in a position that would force Richard to marry an American in order to secure our future.”

  “Oh, I do hope you’re wrong on that point and that money is not the reason he’s marrying her,” Anne lamented. “I believe one should marry for love and love alone.”

  “That’s because you’re young,” Richard said.

  “And you’re cynical.”

  “I’m pragmatic.”

  “Do you suppose Mother’s right? Do you think it’s her money that has drawn him to her?”

  “Probably,” he said quietly.

  She pinched off a bit of muffin and popped it into her mouth. “A shame that. I’ve always liked Farthingham. For a while I thought he might even have an interest in me.”

  “I thought you wanted to marry for love,” Richard reminded her.

  “I do. But I think I could have fallen in love with him.” She laughed lightly. “He’s such fun. You didn’t have a quarrel, did you? He hardly comes around anymore.”

  “Of course, we didn’t quarrel. If Lady Priscilla’s rumors are true, then I suspect he has been busy hunting for a suitable heiress. Courtship is a rather troublesome and time-consuming affair.”

  “As if you would know. Honestly, Richard, the mamas only express an interest in me because they think I’ll bring you along. You could have your pick of any woman in London.”

  “I was telling him much the same thing earlier, my dear, before you came down for breakfast,” his mother said.

  “Am I to assume you two will plot against me this Season?” he asked.

  “We could have a double wedding,” Anne said. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “I think you should have a day devoted exclusively to you.”

  She sipped her tea before looking askance at him. “Were you serious? May I have a new gown?”

  He laughed. “Of course, you may have a new gown. Order a hundred if it will make you happy.”

  “But not two hundred?”

  “We wouldn’t want anyone to confuse you with an American, now would we?”

  “That’ll never happen. I haven’t their poise.”

  “You’re extremely graceful. Lovely. Enchanting. Any peer in England would be fortunate to catch your fancy.”

  “I’d rather you say any man in England.”

  “Any man then. What’s the difference?”

  “Not all men are peers.”

  Ah, an undercurrent. The little brat might indeed understand how they worked, because he was certainly aware of one threatening to work itself into an undertow. “Any man you marry will be a peer,” he stated succinctly.

  “Why?”

  “Because your father was a duke, your mother is a duchess, and by God, you are worthy of a man with a title. To consider a common man is absurd.”

  “But what if I cannot love a man with a title?”

  “You will learn to love him.”

  She released a shriek that damn near pierced his eardrums. “Oh! You are so archaic. You cannot force love; you cannot make it happen. It simply comes upon you, enfolds you in its warmth.”

  She had tears brimming in her eyes.

  “Don’t be distressed, Anne. I won’t force you to marry a man you care nothing for.”

  “But neither will you allow me to marry a man I love if he is not titled.”

  He shook his head in frustration. “This is ludicrous. Why do you argue for marrying a commoner when not more than ten minutes ago you were lamenting your inadequate selection of gowns?” He held up a hand. “Two hundred gowns.” He held up the other hand. “Commoner.” He made a great show of trying to press his palms together and never letting them get within an inch of each other. “Conflicting desires. You cannot have both.”

  “There is no guarantee I’ll acquire the gowns by marrying a peer. What if he is an impoverished lord like Farthingham?”

  “Then I shall make a settlement on you for a yearly sum that will ensure you have the gowns.”

  “If I’m to have such a generous settlement, then it matters not whether he is a peer or a commoner.”

  “Of course, it matters. Why do you persist in arguing for your right to marry a commoner?”

  “I persist in arguing for my right to marry for love!”

  “Why upset yourself by debating falling in love with a commoner when it will not happen?”

  “Because it very well might have happened already.”

  She jumped up from her chair, nearly toppling it over, and rushed from the room. As a general rule, he was not slow-witted, yet he stared after her, unable to make any sense of her words or what exactly had transpired.

  “Well, that didn’t go well at all, did it?” his mother asked, pressing her napkin to each corner of her mouth.

  “Tell me she has not fallen in love with a commoner.”

  “To tell you that would be to lie to you, and to the best of my recollection, I have never lied to you.”

  Richard slumped back in his chair. He had an irrational urge to return to the shoreline, find the vixen he’d sighted that morning, grab her, and toss them both off a cliff into the sea. If he was going to drown, he didn’t wish to drown alone.

  “How could it have happened?” Richard asked, absolutely dumbfounded. “No gentleman has been calling.”

  “Perhaps courtship is not as complicated as you presume.”

  He snorted. “If she has spent no time in this man’s company, then she is no doubt only experiencing infatuation. Probably in love with the color of his eyes or some such unimportant drivel.” An imag
e of red hair flashed before him, unsettling him. “Still, it might be best if you leave for London a bit sooner than you’d originally planned. Introduce her around—”

  “She’s been seen by everyone.”

  “Then she’ll be seen again. I shall make inquiries and find someone to take her mind off this person.” He shook his head. “I suppose I’ll need to be a bit more involved this year.”

  His mother’s face brightened. “And in so doing, perhaps you’ll find someone for yourself. I mean, if Farthingham is marrying, then surely it is time for you.”

  “As you said, Farthingham is in need of funds. I am not.”

  She sighed. “Like Anne, at one time I thought he might ask for her hand in marriage.”

  “Be grateful he did not. He would not have made Anne happy. I cannot imagine him making any woman happy. He would try. I’ll grant Farthingham that much. But I seriously doubt he would succeed.”

  “Perhaps you underestimate him.”

  “I think it most unlikely. But if he must marry, an American is probably an ideal solution for him. For her sake, I pray it is only his title she is after.”

  Because he knew Nicholas Glenville, the Marquess of Farthingham, better than most. Well enough to be trusted with his secret, a secret Richard knew would doom any marriage before vows were ever exchanged.

  Chapter 2

  Crouched on a boulder near the top of the heap that storms and nature had delivered without care over the centuries, hidden by the night’s waning shadows, Richard waited in tense anticipation to see if the woman would show. He couldn’t explain his behavior. He’d never sighted her before yesterday and had no reason to believe she would miraculously reappear today.

  And yet here he was contemplating the possibility that perhaps she was at the shore on holiday. Or more likely, her employers were here on holiday—considering the plainness of her attire. He was unaccustomed to seeing anyone within this cove. His family had laid claim to it generations before, and the locals were well aware that trespassing was not allowed—another reason he’d deduced the woman must be a visitor in the area.

  The possibility also existed that she was demented, not right in her mind, wandering about without benefit of chaperone until she’d stumbled on him, obviously taking her fill of him. He wondered if she’d liked what she’d seen, then chastised himself for caring.

  As a general rule, he was not vain. Mainly because he found little about himself that lent itself well to vanity. Without the proper attire of a gentleman, he could easily be mistaken for a dockside worker or a fisherman, a laborer of some sort. He simply did not possess fine patrician features. Rather he looked as though his face had been hewn from rock, chiseled with care to be sure, but never finely sanded into perfection.

  So the possibility existed that the lady—on getting a clearer inspection of him when he’d twisted around yesterday morning—had run, not because she’d been spotted—as he’d presumed—but because she hadn’t found his face nearly as interesting as she had his bare back, buttocks, and thighs. For all he knew, she might not have given him another thought once she’d dashed off.

  While he had been burdened with the inability to cease thinking of her, of the fiery shade of her hair that had so mimicked the sun. He couldn’t help but believe she would be equally bold, daring, and passionate. Surely God would not give such an alluring feature to a docile woman. It would be cruelty in the extreme, when she so easily captured a man’s attention.

  No, indeed. If Darwin’s theory of evolution were to be believed, then women such as she would have no choice but to populate the world with titian goddesses, and men would be powerless to prevent it. Indeed, they would be overjoyed to ensure it.

  The more he pondered what he knew of her, the more conclusions he drew regarding what he did not know. He thought it highly unlikely that her features would be unflattering or that he would find anything about her unwelcoming. Within his gut, he’d experienced a sharp primal attraction the instant his gaze had fallen on her. He couldn’t explain it, and yet neither could he deny its existence.

  It was the solitary reason he now waited with the uncharacteristic patience of a saint for her arrival when he had no way of knowing if she would even appear. Madness. He was engaged in absolute madness. He should take his morning swim, be done with it, and return home.

  Instead he waited as though he did not have businesses to oversee, estate managers to meet with, and preparations to be made for the journey to London. He’d become responsible for all five of his family’s holdings when he was a mere eighteen, and the sea had savagely stolen his father from him. Richard had taken control with a firm hand and a vision his father had argued against, a vision that would serve to catapult them into the next century.

  Modern advances were moving forward too rapidly. A man either embraced them or drowned. His father had drowned. Literally.

  Richard fought back the images threatening to overcome him. He did not wish to deal with them now, preferred never to deal with them, but they lurked in the corners of his mind, waiting until he lowered his guard, until he was weakest, to pounce. They were the reason he seldom imbibed alcohol and seldom lay down to sleep unless he was completely exhausted. Only a strong, determined will could beat back the memories. And that will he had inherited from his father tenfold.

  He forced his thoughts back to the woman who had deprived him of his morning swim. Not that it was too late to take one, but fate would no doubt deliver her as soon as he was too far out to return to shore in time to approach her.

  He truly couldn’t understand the overpowering desire to see her again. It wasn’t so much that he wanted a woman as much as it was that he wanted this particular woman. And it was this realization that baffled him.

  It had been some months since he’d had a mistress. Having parted on good terms with his last one, he’d been in no hurry to replace her. One did not choose a mistress carelessly for fear one would end up paying more dearly than one anticipated. Richard had a well-planned budget he allowed for such things: a residence, servants, clothing, and appropriate jeweled gifts from time to time. He did not require spontaneity in his life, detested it actually. He expected a mistress to be available when he called, to be reading the same books as he so they could discuss them, to enjoy the same sorts of entertainments he did—in bed and out.

  He had a feeling the little sea urchin he’d spotted the day before would not make a good mistress, and oddly, he was not even considering her for the role. Which begged the question: Why was he hiding behind rocks, his gaze trained so intensely on the spot where she’d disappeared as to give him a headache?

  She was disrupting his morning routine. He should get on with it, settle for a quick swim, and return home for breakfast and his other morning rituals. But even as he contemplated the foolishness of his quest for the elusive siren, he spotted her silhouette clambering over the rocks that served as a natural barrier to that portion of the coast. His heart slammed against his ribs with a force similar to that of the waves crashing against the shore during the worst of storms.

  From his perch, he could discern that she approached with wariness, as though she’d hoped he wouldn’t be there more than she’d hoped that he would be. A pity.

  She reached the narrow ribbon of shoreline, set what appeared to be a blanket on the rocks, and gazed out at the dark sea that the sun had yet to unveil. Richard was halfway to his feet, ready to make his presence known, when she suddenly reached down, grabbed the hem of her dress, and brought it up over her head, in what he was certain to her had been quick movements but in what seemed to him to have taken forever to accomplish.

  His heart very nearly stopped on the spot.

  She was still silhouetted shadows, but what an incredible shadow. Her bared legs were slender and appeared longer than he’d expected they would, considering she did not appear to be at all tall. The hem of her dress fluttered up over her bottom, revealing its perfect rounded shape, and he could well imagine spla
ying his fingers over each cheek and pressing her hips against his…or coming up behind her and trailing his fingers over her narrow back and the delicate slope of her shoulders, of running his hands up and down her arms, folding them in front of her, and leaning her against him until not even the wind whispered between their bodies.

  Her outlined perfection cast her dress onto the shore, before she shook her head, freeing her hair to the gentle ocean-scented breeze. She was more shadow than light, difficult once again to see details, but he was fairly certain her hair stopped short of curling over her bottom. He very much wanted to test his theory, to make his presence known, and discover what possessed this woman to display herself with such wild abandon.

  A woman with absolutely no inhibitions—the possibilities astounded him. She would be molten passion beneath his fingers, raging desire beneath his rocking body.

  She did not test the water with caution, with the dip of a toe, the tap of a heel, but simply rushed into it, splashing droplets around her. Then she released a tiny screech and disappeared beneath the dark surface.

  Merciful heavens! Kitty was taken off guard by the frigid water. She’d known if she didn’t plunge under immediately, she’d retreat to shore before she’d taken two strokes.

  Breaking through to the surface, gulping in a great draught of air, she felt invigorated and alive. She thrived in water, sensed its healing value, loved the way she could immerse herself and allow her mind to wander. She’d known returning to the same spot carried the risk of encountering Poseidon, so she’d approached with caution, scanning the rocks and water for any sign of him, as grateful as she was disappointed that he wasn’t there.

  She’d had a strange, unsettling dream of him—of them—in the water, without clothes, their bodies intertwined. Only the water was warm, like that off the Texas coast. No, not warm like that. Hotter. Much hotter.

  Awaking damp and breathing heavily, she’d thrown back the covers, scrambled out of bed, and rushed to the chair by the window, where she’d brought her feet up and pressed her bent knees against her chest. Chairs somehow always seemed safer, a place where lurid dreams couldn’t take hold.